The Lesson
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Belle learns swordplay and self-defense from the Dark One. When rope becomes part of the lesson, the power dynamic shifts. Woobie!Dark One and Dominant!Belle. Prince Charming spoils the fun.


He finds these lessons disconcerting.

Primarily because they remind him of Cora and that particular peccadillo. But his maid has no interest in learning magic. In fact, she seems to have an aversion to it. Which sometimes feels like an aversion to _him_. But no matter.

She's about twenty paces off, doing her best to move undetected through the dense brushwood. Even without his extrasensory…proficiencies, Rumplestiltskin would be aware she's creeping closer. She's improving, though. Just like he taught her: heel down first, then roll to toes. Always be mindful of where you step.

When Belle first asked to learn swordplay, not long after she had witnessed his scuffle with that scoundrel Robin Hood, he'd laughed. Whyever would she need to know _that_, with him as her master? But then she'd persisted at dinner and again the next morning, and then she had followed him to his personal chamber, still talking, and caught hold of him by the arm, explaining that she'd be poor company indeed if she never learned anything interesting or new while working for him.

"One day, I'd like to go with you on one on your deals, Rumple, and not be a hindrance to you," she had explained, "I've always dreamed of adventure. Teach me how to defend myself. Then you won't have to bother with me, and perhaps we can go on journeys together from time to time."

_She wanted to travel with him. See the world with him. She was not adverse to his company._

He stored these truths away like treasures. And sometimes, when he was being very foolish and sentimental, he imagined what it would be like to travel with Belle at his side, showing her the wonders of the realm.

She has her wooden dagger out, at the ready. He had assured her that the dummy weapon wasn't necessary, that nothing her mortal strength was capable of could kill him. But she had insisted: "You aren't capable of pain, then?" He'd allowed that he was, although he could heal himself near instantaneously.

"Well, I don't want to hurt you, Rumple," she'd said solemnly. Sweet girl. It was enchanting when she called him "Rumple." Almost as though he were an ordinary man.

With a cry, Belle draws her blunted sword and charges. With a smile, Rumplestiltskin whirls round and meets steel with steel. He slows and gentles his parries, allowing her to practice anticipating where his blade will fall next. She really is improving.

When his maid is covered in a thin sheen of perspiration and her energy begins to flag, Rumplestiltskin takes mercy and knocks the blade from her hand before spinning her round and catching her by the throat.

"Enough," he says softly. "You did well."

Belle's shoulders rise and fall rapidly. She frees herself, smiling. "One more try, Rumple?"

"No, I've tired of combat for today. But I _will_ give you one last lesson before dinner."

With a flick of his wrist, their dummy weapons are gone. Out of the air, Rumplestiltskin unfurls a thick rope.

"Your sword handling is becoming passable. But it won't protect you from most of the lifelong blackguards I associate with. Today, you learn how to escape."

He offers her the rope. "Do you know how to loosen a sheet bend knot, Belle?" She shakes her head 'no.'

Rumplestiltskin holds out his wrists. "It's quite simple, really. First, we create the knot. Make a loop with this end and slip the other end through…"

Belle's brow furrows as she follows his instructions, securing his hands. "Like this?"

But Rumplestiltskin doesn't answer. The rope tightens against his wrists, and he stills. His thoughts skitter away to another time, another place.

_"What should I do with the deserters, High Constable?" The lieutenant gives the dirty rope a hard tug, unbalancing Rumplestiltskin. He screams when he falls upon his injured leg. The other prisoners pretend they do not hear, though they are bound together by the same cables and chains. Each man has his own agonies to attend to._

"Rumple?" Belle watches as his eyes become glassy and unfocused. "Am I doing it right?"

As if through the wrong end of a telescope, Rumplestiltskin watches the girl gently take hold of his wrists. She is asking him something, though he'll be damned if he can decipher what.

"What would you like me to do next?" Belle is holding his bound hands in her own.

"What?" he asks her, in a very small voice. His traitorous body has already begun to respond. It is entirely nonsensical, but to be bound and then handled gently is the Dark One's particular weakness. It's as if his body wishes to rewrite the indignities he suffered several lifetimes ago. He wants to be bound, yes, but he also wants mercy. He takes a deep, steadying breath as she steps closer. He cannot think; he cannot move; he cannot…he cannot…

Belle may still be a maiden, but she understands what it means when a man's breath becomes shallow and quick. She understands dim, unfocused eyes, and she even understands the way Rumplestiltskin's already tight trousers become taut and full. He _likes_ to feel the ropes against his wrists. He _likes_ to be bound.

And, inexperienced though she may be, there is a peculiar part of Belle that delights in this knowledge. Deep within her, there is a part that twists and aches to give him this pleasure. There is a brazen, adventurous part of her that wishes to reward him for his docility and vulnerability.

Belle understands that should he wish it, this rope would vanish, and she would be at his mercy. So he must wish for this, instead.

Trancelike, she pulls him toward her, and he stumbles forward, his long hair falling forward into his eyes. "I want to touch you," she says, so softly that her voice is carried away on the breeze. Rumplestiltskin gives the slightest nod.

She rests her hands upon his sharp hipbones, the skims her fingers upward, touching his slender waist and the rippling of his rib cage. He makes a soft noise, deep in his throat, and leans closer, his forehead coming to rest against hers. "Do you want me to stop?" she asks. Belle feels the slightest shake of his head: 'No.'

This feels strange. Her cheeks are on fire, and it is difficult to draw breath. She aches, but it is a delicious sort of ache. His breath is hot and quick upon her face.

Belle feels the tremor of pleasure that runs through him as she reaches behind his neck and draws his forehead down to rest against her shoulder. She holds him there, one hand tangling in his long hair, the other slipping underneath the tight waistband of his trousers at his hip, then sliding around to the front, causing him to curse, then buck against her fingers.

Not knowing where she finds the courage, Belle whispers, "Be still, Rumple." He obeys, but his breath comes in panicky little sobs as she takes him in her hand. "I think you were lonely," she whispers, tightening her grasp around the thick, throbbing part of him that demands her touch. "I think that's why you brought me here. Any man would be lonely."

"I am not a man," he chokes out, and this does not meet with Belle's approval. She abruptly withdraws her hand. He cries out at the loss, his hips bucking forward again. "Please, Belle…"

"Please is better," she replies, lightly tracing the outline of him through his leather trousers. "Lie down, Rumple." He makes an immediate movement to obey, but desire and his bound hands make him unsteady. Belle catches him by the elbows and helps settle him on the forest floor, brushing the hair back from his face.

"Close your eyes," she instructs.

He watches her warily.

She bends and kisses the pulse point on his neck, then brushes her lips upward and plucks at his earlobe with her teeth. "Close your eyes, Rumple," she instructs. Then, in a softer voice, "I promise I'll stop if you ask me to." His eyes roll back as they close.

"You _are_ a man," Belle informs him in a firmer voice, and he can feel her nimble fingers unlacing his pants, then drawing him out into the cool evening air.

"I want you to teach me _this_," she whispers, kissing his neck and nibbling along his jaw before her lips travel lower, brushing over his bobbing Adam's apple and grazing across his prominent collar bone. Her warm hand tightens around him once more, and he feels Belle shift, moving down his body, her lips at last—_at last!_—touching the swollen tip of him. He groans and arches up to meet her waiting mouth.

It is agony not to be able to twist his fingers in her silky hair and demand a fast, punishing rhythm that will bring his body the release it desperately seeks. Instead, he allows her inexperienced tongue to lick and explore the length and taste of him, his mouth first hissing, then pleading. He cannot remain still now, and she does not ask him to. Instead, Belle welcomes him into her hot, wet warmth and allows his hips to teach her what he needs.

He is crying out, over and over, though he is too lost in this pleasurable pain to know it. When his body goes rigid, then jerks, again and again, Belle swallows the liquid heat that spurts into her mouth. At last, he is limp beneath her, and she knows he has found his release.

"Rumplestiltskin!" A man's voice, from far off by the entrance to the Dark Castle. "Rumplestiltksin, show yourself! I've come to deal!"

In an instant, he is back on his feet, fully clothed. The rope has vanished. The only indication that he was recently in the throes of pleasure is his jagged breathing.

"Charming," he mutters, and the name is like a curse on his lips. He takes a step toward the castle, then turns back to Belle.

"This…cannot be, love," Rumplestiltskin tells her sadly, glancing down at where the skin still glistens, pink and human, on his chest. He waves his hand, then continues on toward the castle, unable to meet her eyes.

Belle blinks rapidly, looking around her. Why did their lesson end so abruptly? Why is her heart racing? And what is that earthy, pungent taste on her lips?


End file.
